I think every married man hits the wall I’ve hit… and, if they don’t, well more power to ‘em!
Somewhere between “I will” and “I do”, Vicky’s outlook on me has become something along the lines of a shlub. I’m no longer “her man”; I’m just “that guy”. You know. “I gotta make that guy’s dinner every night.” “If that guy snores one more time, I’m killing him, so help me Gawd!”
Now, I’m not a big man of “that guy” status. I’m not used to being a shlub. For those who remember, I used to be an actor with beautiful women fawning all over me nightly and offers for new roles pouring in because I was so handsome and talented… I remember that day as if it was… well… several years ago.
So, I thought I’d figure out what it takes to be more than a shlub by finding out the kinds of guys Vicky used to date, before finding me… for better or for worse. “I liked bad boys,” she told me Sunday night, her tongue loosened with a bottle of tasty Pinot. Well, I contended, I’m a bad boy. I engaged in unofficial adultery, for crying out loud! (It appears you actually have to have sex before splitting up to be official. Vicky has tried to restore my bad boy status by noting that I was not divorced at the time but that doesn’t seem to help. Times change and kissing just ain’t the adultery it used to be.) I had a motorcycle! I’m a philosopher and there’s no bigger “Bad Boy” than Socrates. The mother-fucker was convicted with death and said, “Bring it on, bitches!” (Or something like that… in Greek…)
But then, Vicky added, “I liked pretty boys.” Pretty? Well, they don’t come prettier than actors, than leading men, do they?
… um, do they?
But it looked like the shlub label was going to stick.
“What if I became a Nascar Driver?” I asked her. “Would you think I was cool, then?”
“Sure,” she said, “but that’s never going to happen.”
So, I guess it’s time to prove her wrong!
That’s right! Starting this week, I’ve decided to start training to be a Nascar Driver! From what I can see, you just need to meet a few qualifications. You need:
1) A car
2) A track
3) A crew
Well, I can’t afford a car. I don’t have a track. Nobody’s offering to be my crew.
I’m not inbred but I don’t think they test too strenuously for that. I think if I just act inbred, I should pass. So, that will be my first step towards becoming a Nascar Driver, and looking cool for my wife!
My first step towards acting more inbred is pretty simple: Going to Wal-Mart! Being at Wal-Mart, alone, is enough to qualify you as inbred but I plan to take this to the next level and combine it with another sure sign of inbreeding: Wife beating!
Okay. Okay. Listen, I can’t actually beat my wife. Vicky might hit back. So, my plan is this.
A. Go to Wal-Mart.
B. Get a bat from Sporting Goods.
C. Hide out in Women’s Underwears. (That’s what they call it at Wal-Mart, right?)
D. Once someone else’s wife walks by – BLAMMMO!!!!
Then, I’ll be a Nascar Driver!
Or, at least, one large step in that direction. I’ll be just like Stewart, and Ernhardt Jr. and… all the others. And then, my wife will think I’m cool!
… at least, I hope so. Cause I’d hate to have to steal the bastard’s car after I beat his wife…